Chapter 1: The Sleeping Village
The Shattered Crown wasn't much of a city anymore—just a husk of broken spires and cracked cobblestones, clinging to the edge of the Fallen Kingdoms like a forgotten dream. Once, it had been a Weaver's citadel, its towers piercing the sky with threads of fate, each strand a story woven into the very fabric of existence. Now, the wind howled through empty streets, carrying whispers of the Sundering that had torn the world apart centuries ago, leaving behind only echoes of what once was. Kael didn't care much for history, though. He cared about the people who still called this ruin home, the few souls who clung to life amid the decay.
He trudged through the central plaza, boots kicking up dust that danced in the afternoon sun, casting long shadows from the jagged remnants of a once-grand fountain. At nineteen, Kael was lean and wiry, his dark hair tangled from too many nights spent sleeping under crumbling eaves, the weight of the world resting heavily on his shoulders. His patched cloak fluttered in the breeze as he adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder—filled with scraps of metal and herbs he'd scavenged from the outskirts, remnants of a life that had once thrived. The Unshackled didn't bow to gods or demons, and Kael had learned early that survival meant relying on your own hands, your own wits.
"Oi, Kael!" Toren's voice boomed from the forge ahead, a squat building with smoke curling from its chimney like a serpent rising from the depths. The blacksmith was a bear of a man, his arms scarred from years at the anvil, his graying beard streaked with soot that spoke of countless hours spent laboring over molten metal. "You're late. Mara's been asking for those roots."
Kael grinned, tossing a bundle of dried herbs onto Toren's workbench, the earthy scent mingling with the acrid smell of smoke. "Had to dodge a rift-beast out by the old gates. Nearly lost an arm."
Toren grunted, inspecting the haul with a practiced eye. "Better you than me, lad. These'll do for the fever tonics. Half the village is down sick again." His voice was gruff, but there was a hint of concern beneath the surface.
Kael's smile faded, replaced by a knot of worry in his stomach. The "sickness" had started weeks ago—people collapsing into trances, eyes open but unseeing, muttering about shadows and threads that seemed to weave in and out of their consciousness. No tonic had helped. He glanced across the plaza toward Elder Mara's hut, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of time and neglect. She'd raised him after his parents vanished in a rift storm, teaching him to read the old runes scattered across the city like forgotten secrets. If anyone knew what was happening, it was her.
Before he could head that way, a scream split the air, sharp and piercing. Kael spun, hand dropping instinctively to the dagger at his belt, heart racing. Toren dropped his hammer, eyes wide with alarm. The sound came from the forge's back room—a raw, guttural cry that turned Kael's blood cold, sending a chill racing down his spine.
"Toren, what—" Kael began, but the words caught in his throat.
"Stay back!" Toren roared, shoving past him toward the door with a speed that belied his bulk. But as the blacksmith reached the threshold, his knees buckled beneath him. He hit the ground hard, hands clutching his head, a low moan escaping his lips. His eyes rolled back, and he went still, sprawled across the dirt like a fallen tree.
Kael froze, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. Another trance. He knelt beside Toren, shaking his shoulder with urgency.
"Toren! Wake up!" But there was no response—just shallow breathing and a faint tremor in the man's scarred hands. Panic clawed at Kael's chest, a wild animal desperate to escape. This wasn't fever. This was something else entirely.
He sprinted for Mara's hut, dodging the cracked fountain and a pile of rubble that had once been a Weaver statue, its features eroded by time and neglect. The door hung ajar, creaking on its hinges as he burst inside, the scent of sage and old parchment hitting him like a wave, familiar yet unsettling. Mara stood hunched over a table cluttered with scrolls, her white hair spilling over a shawl embroidered with faded runes that whispered of ancient knowledge. She didn't look up as he stumbled in, her focus unwavering.
"Mara, it's Toren—he's down, like the others!" Kael's voice cracked, desperation lacing his words. "What's happening?"
She turned slowly, her lined face grim, shadows pooling in the creases of her skin. "It's begun, then." Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she clutched a small, cracked relic—a shard of obsidian etched with spiraling threads that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. "The curse of the Shattered Crown. I'd hoped we had more time."
"Curse?" Kael stepped closer, eyeing the relic with a mix of fear and curiosity. "You mean the trances? They're not sick?"
"Not in the way you think." Mara set the shard down with care, gesturing to a scroll unrolled before her. It depicted a towering figure weaving strands of light, surrounded by broken cities that had once been vibrant and alive. "The Weavers built this place, long before the Sundering broke their Tapestry. Something's waking—something tied to their old power."
Kael frowned, his mind racing with the weight of her words. He'd heard the tales—how the First Weaver spun reality, how the Betrayer cut the threads, how the world fractured into Celestial, Infernal, and Mortal realms. But that was history, not his problem. "What does that have to do with Toren?"
Mara pointed to the plaza through the hut's small window, her expression grave. "Look."
He followed her gaze, heart sinking as he took in the sight. The air shimmered above the fountain, a faint ripple like heat rising from stone. Then it split—a jagged tear in reality, pulsing with violet light that seemed to beckon from beyond. A rift. Kael had seen them before, spitting out beasts or swallowing travelers whole, but this one felt different. Darker, more insidious.
"It's calling them," Mara said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Their minds are trapped beyond it, in dreams they can't escape. If we don't act, they'll never wake."
Kael's stomach twisted, a heavy weight settling in his gut. "How do we stop it?"
Mara hesitated, her gaze flickering to the shard in her hand before pressing it into his palm. It was cold, heavier than it looked, its runes glowing faintly under his touch, as if alive. "This came from the Rift Spire, the old Weaver tower. I found it years ago, when the first rifts opened. It's tied to their craft—and maybe to you."
"Me?" Kael stared at the shard, then back at her, confusion and fear swirling within him. "I'm no sorcerer, Mara. I can't—"
"You're Unshackled, Kael. Free of fate. That's why it chose you." Her eyes softened, but her tone was firm, resolute. "Go to the spire. Find the source. I'll watch Toren and the others."
He wanted to argue, to shove the shard back into her hands and run, to escape the weight of responsibility that pressed down on him like a storm cloud. But Toren's crumpled form flashed in his mind, and the screams of the others echoed in his ears, haunting and relentless. He nodded, jaw tight, and bolted out the door, determination igniting within him.
The Rift Spire loomed at the city's edge, a skeletal tower of black stone, its peak lost in a haze of swirling clouds that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Kael's boots crunched on gravel as he approached, the shard pulsing in his grip, a heartbeat that matched his own. The rift's hum grew louder, a low thrum that vibrated in his bones, resonating with a primal fear. He'd avoided this place his whole life—too many stories of people vanishing inside, swallowed by the darkness—but now there was no choice.
The entrance was a gaping maw, framed by runes that flickered like dying embers, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. He stepped in, the air thickening, pressing against his skin like a weight. Shadows danced on the walls, though no light source explained their movement, as if the very darkness had a will of its own. At the chamber's center stood a pedestal, cracked and ancient, cradling a larger version of Mara's shard—a jagged crystal pulsing with the same violet light as the rift outside, a beacon of both hope and dread.
Kael reached for it, hesitating as the hum spiked, a warning that sent a shiver down his spine. His fingers brushed the surface, and the world exploded around him.
Heat seared his lungs, a fiery grip that threatened to consume him. He stumbled, vision clearing to reveal a cavern of molten rock, rivers of lava snaking through the floor like veins of a sleeping beast. The air reeked of sulfur, acrid and suffocating, and ahead, a figure loomed—massive, armored in jagged steel, a hammer raised over an anvil that glowed red-hot. Toren. But not Toren. His eyes burned with an unnatural flame, and his roar shook the cavern, echoing like thunder.
"Kael!" The voice was Toren's, but it was warped with rage, twisted by the darkness that had ensnared him. "You left us to die!"
"No!" Kael ducked as the hammer swung, crashing into the stone where he'd stood just moments before. He scrambled back, heart racing, dagger useless against this nightmare. "Toren, it's me! Wake up!"
The blacksmith charged, faster than any man should move, hammer arcing down again with deadly intent. Kael rolled aside, heat singeing his cloak, and spotted the crystal shard still clutched in his hand. It pulsed faster, syncing with his heartbeat, a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar. Instinct took over—he thrust it forward, willing it to do something, anything.
A thread of light shot from the shard, thin and trembling, wrapping around Toren's arm like a lifeline. The blacksmith froze, hammer mid-swing, his fiery eyes flickering with confusion. "Kael?" The rage faltered, replaced by a glimmer of recognition. "Where…?"
"You're dreaming," Kael gasped, holding the thread steady, willing it to pull Toren back from the abyss. "Come back."
The cavern shuddered, walls dissolving into shadow as if the very fabric of reality was unraveling. Toren dropped the hammer, collapsing to his knees as the light thread tightened, then snapped. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Kael jolted awake on the spire's cold floor, the crystal shard dim in his hand, its power ebbing like a tide receding. His chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath. The pedestal was empty—the larger crystal gone, leaving only a lingering sense of loss. He staggered outside, the rift's hum quieter now, a whisper of what had been, and sprinted back to the forge, heart pounding with urgency.
Toren sat up as Kael burst in, rubbing his head as if awakening from a deep slumber. "What in the hells…?" His voice was rough but unmistakably his own, the warmth of familiarity flooding Kael with relief.
"You're awake," Kael said, the weight of the world lifting slightly from his shoulders. He sank against the wall, the shard heavy in his grip, a reminder of the darkness they had faced.
Mara appeared in the doorway, her expression a mix of awe and dread, eyes wide with the knowledge of what had transpired. "You did it. You crossed the veil."
Kael looked at the shard, its runes faintly glowing, a promise of power and peril. "What am I?" he whispered, the question hanging in the air like a specter.
She didn't answer, but her eyes said enough. Whatever this power was, it wasn't done with him. Across the plaza, another scream rang out, piercing the fragile silence, and the rift pulsed anew, a dark heartbeat echoing through the remnants of the Shattered Crown. The curse wasn't over.